


Ito

by TahliahtheFox



Series: Ito [1]
Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Freeform, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-09-03 12:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8714716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TahliahtheFox/pseuds/TahliahtheFox
Summary: A collection of poetry from Qui-gon Jinn and visions from Obi-wan Kenobi that span the relationship between Master and Apprentice. This fic is not all poetry!  There is prose to compliment the poetry and add context to to the work.This tale is heavily inspired by the folk tale about the red string of fate.“It’s an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us and penetrates us; it binds the galaxy together.”





	1. Taut

**Author's Note:**

> I am hoping to update this fic on a weekly basis (tm) until it runs its course. I will do my best to inform everyone of an update schedule if life happens.
> 
> Feedback is super appreciated!
> 
> Ito means string in Japanese.

I wonder if you notice  
That ever so slight pull  
Taut over the indeterminable distance.  
Rooted in the depths of my heart  
Your soul  
It sings to me of warmth and light.  
When I sigh  
Fraught with loneliness  
That thin bond heaves and  
Whips across the horizon  
Tiny ripples across the ocean  
Of time and space.  
In the silence  
It whispers to me of you.  
Can you hear it?  
Even now it speaks  
Far yet near  
Aching for the day  
When it pulls us together  
Bound as one.  
No longer tight across the stars  
But deep and full  
Like the heat of the sun.


	2. Over Distance, Something Blooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qui-gon spends the evening in meditations, and discovers something he didn't know about himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frankly, I am a poet more than a story author when it comes to writing. But I wanted to give the whole writing thing a go. This is horribly un-beta'd and I will beg your forgiveness now for it. This is a partner piece to the poem from before.
> 
> I don't own any of these characters, so yep.
> 
> Edit: FORMATTING IS HARD! T_T

Sunlight filtered orange onto the small table in the Jinn/Kenobi residence.  Yet another day was ending on this side of Coruscant, though the traffic outside belied otherwise.   Qui-gon stood with a soft sigh, noting ink stains under his nails after spending the afternoon adrift in thought.  Writing—soft scratching; the smell of paper; the sheer patience of placing letter after letter in this digital universe—was almost like meditation to him.

It was one of the few times that the Unifying Force opened to him.  Only then, with a pen in hand, could he really hear the whispered half-truths and see the glossy future-in-motion that his Padawan was always steeped in.

The notebook’s old leather creaked in disapproval as he snapped it shut.  Bought what seemed like ages ago—a gift from his Padawan on his name day. 

“ _How does one top a rock?”_ He hears the sniggering laughter of his not-quite-adult-not-quite-child student.

Fingers across supple leather. “ _You cannot, for I already have the greatest gift.”_  

The corners of his mouth tug upwards as he remembered the scoff, the slight roll of blue-green eyes.  If only his precocious Padawan knew.

The memory faded away, released upwards and outwards into the Force as Qui-gon padded into the kitchen.  Though the dining hall was likely alight and lively with Jedi settling down for dinner, he couldn’t be bothered to make the trip.  Too loud, too full of energy and bustling business.  Besides, he was in no mood for gossip nor council matters.

In the depths of the freezer box there were two frozen meals, labeled in the rushed, tilted handwriting of his pupil.  Ever thoughtful, his student had left him enough dinners to last a fortnight.

_“Though I won’t be gone but a week, Master.  And don’t make that face.  You cannot cook.”_

_“You will make this old Master fat!”_ An impish grin flitted through his mind.

It had been well over two months now, since he had seen his Padawan off with the knight pair.  A flash of copper hair, ritual words and ritual bows, grease and fuel filling the air near the transport bay.  The quick, knowing glances exchanged almost unnoticed between the freshly knighted Jedi.  A master’s job is to let go.  To nudge their fledglings from the nest and give them the courage to fly.

Qui-gon set the stove to cook rice—one of the few things he was incapable of burning—and placed the penultimate dinner in the oven to warm.  Once the kitchen alarm was set, a loud old thing, Qui-gon returned to his journal.

_He is a_ senior _Padawan now, lest you forget,_ he chided himself.  Besides, Obi-wan had traveled without him before on missions when they had deemed it wise to separate.  This was no less different.  And yet, his scheduled return had come and gone.  The days had stretched to weeks and, like the shadows that played upon the wall, stretched even deeper into months.

*

As the first month came to a close, Qui-gon had descended upon Mace Windu in the dining hall, eyes aflame.

“Where is my Padawan, Mace?”

Deep, caff-black eyes blinked at him.  “Their last report stated that there had been some…diplomatic hitches.”

Corse cottons scratched his palms. “Hitches?  This was a simple treaty signing!  It was meant to be a training exercise in handling non-humanoid society.  It shouldn’t have any ‘hitches’!”  His voice began to reach above the din in the hall.

“These things do happen, Qui,” Mace replied, quietly.  A warm, heavy hand weighed down upon his own.  “Even if Obi-wan _wasn’t_ completely capable on his own—which by the way, old friend, he is far more mature and independent than you give him credit for—he is in good hands.” 

“They’ll be back soon?” Qui-gon relents, with a soft voice and sagging shoulders. 

“They are fine.  Obi-wan is fine.”  Mace repeats, his tone only a whisper of exasperation.  “He is a fine Jedi.” _And he is nearly ready for his trials,_ says the unspoken undercurrent of the council member and the Force.

*

Qui-gon blinks, the memory shattered by insistent chiming from the kitchen.  Plating the food was an easy ritual, and suddenly he found himself on the sofa, a steaming bowl of rice and stew in one hand and a datapad in the other.  Perhaps he could shoo away the ever-persistent feeling of uncertainty with a little news and reading.

Unintentionally, he shoots a small probe down the bond he shares with his Padawan.  It twangs, like an instrument string wound too tight.  The reverberation bounces around his shields as he lets his mental touch drop away from the bond. 

_Vast distance always does this to bonds_ , he reminds himself as he exhales slowly to release the mental cacophony out into the Force.

Instead of trying to ignore the itching discomfort around the training bond, Qui-gon settles the bowl of untouched food into his lap and closes his eyes.  Years of practice means settling into his center is like slipping into the warm waters of a bath.  Easing open his mental shields to the Force, he reaches for-- _quiet squeaks—earthy loam—the memory of deep forests past—_ the Living Force.  It reaches back to him, like a long-lost friend, and cradles him in its rich fields.

Slowly, gingerly, as though he was inspecting a wound, Qui-gon turns his focus to the bond.  It snaps and puckers, as all bonds do when stretched across such vast distances.  At this distance, the bond was nearly mute; only the most minute of flickering informed him his Padawan was alive.  As he toys with it, inspecting the edges and the roots, he feels it.  A trivial twinge and he sees tendril of the bond, brilliant and blue, sneaking downwards, deeper than it should have been.

Curious, he shifts closer, following the tiny leafling’s path.  Memories, half-formed, flit past his vision in rapid succession.  _Training salles—sweat and the taste of triumph—defiant eyes before a durasteel door—a laugh—a look of confusion—Mahstah?_   The Force shows him all that was his Obi-wan; _effervescent and clean in the Force while he executes katas—irritated pacing between negotiation sessions—a quiet smile reserved only for him._   No longer the youngling that he begrudgingly took in, but a man in his own right, with a distinct and burgeoning personality.

Like a shock, down from the Force into the seat of his soul, he realizes it—and as he does, the tiny tendril uncurls like a flower.  Deep in the depths of his heart, it blooms up like a blossom opening to breathe after the first rain of spring.  It is no longer a parental, platonic love that roots his bond with Obi-wan.  It is something deeper, something far more treasured and warm.  As Qui-gon relaxes into it, delicately examining this newfound sapling suspended in his mind’s eye, the true depth of what was beginning becomes apparent to him.

Qui-gon’s eyes snap open just as the pressure on the bond begins to abate ever so minutely.

“Oh.”


	3. Morning Threads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qui-gon pays a visit to the crèche.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! Thank you for all your kudos and kind words. I greatly appreciate them and love your feedback.
> 
> If you find any mistakes, they are certainly my own. I read this several times over, but I am sure I could have missed something.
> 
> I am hoping to update this weekly, I have several poems written and in a timeline, I just need to actually flesh out the pose. ^_^

_The morning dawns quietly_

_Gentle, as if not wishing to wake her children_

_Still adrift amidst clouds of hopeful dreaming._

_I bask in her warmth_

_As we all rise to waking_

_Acrid tea leaves_

_Sweet breads baked upon the hearth_

_Absolutions and thankfulness_

_We greet the dawn._

_She draws me_

_Though I was but a bug_

_And she, a flame_

_Footfalls soft on polished floors_

_To help her dearest_

_Most cherished souls._

_She entices me with her song_

_Blue-green thread_

_Wound ‘round my finger_

_Leads me as I tread_

_To younglings, whose presence_

_Like notes of light,_

_Rise up to greet me._

_They are dawn._

_They are dew._

_They are the future_

_Incarnate in grubby hands_

_Scribbled drawings._

_Brilliant rainbows, united in simple joys_

_Radiant cacophony:_

_Sunbeams on the window_

_The left-over taste of breakfast_

_Lingering on cheeks and fingers_

_Unfiltered laughter bubbling up like_

_Fresh—at last!—it condensed like breath on snow_

_It seemed like months had past ‘ere precious flow_

_Had soothed his lips, his parched and brittle bones_

_Upon his back—the years—they weigh like stones_

_He wonders if the world would pass him by_

_Forever doomed to wait and watch the sky._

Qui-gon deliberately set down his pen and glanced upwards.  All around him, at miniature tables, younglings colored and drew—the walls were alight with kupi drawings and painted murals.  Snuggled in beside a Wookie who hadn’t quite discovered that paint is indeed very hard to remove from fur, Qui-gon had spent his morning teaching and writing.

Before him, a small gaggle of younglings encircled their crèche master.  All of them no older than three, they were fresh to the temple and had yet to be assigned to a clan.  Though they were fidgety and restless, each of the new younglings gave their rapt attention to the young, motherly Togrutan.  Her faint blue skin shimmered as she spun tales of Jedi heroics and things long past.

The Force welled up beside her, weaving truths and lessons-not-yet-learned into the air before her.  All eyes watched in rapt awe as their toys danced a story of hardship and triumph.  Except one pair.  Fierce blue-green eyes, fearful yet attentive, stared straight at him.  Auburn hair, not quite yet grown out of its baby peach fuzz, glinted in the sunlight as the child tilted his head in curiosity.

_Within the heat of desert—burns his eyes_

_Sharp and stinging sand, it cuts him like knives_

_The stink of death, decay, long rotted life_

_So bleak, the darkness burns though made of strife_

Qui-gon blinked in surprise.  He gently extracted himself from the there-is-far-too-much-paint-to-determine-a-true-color youngling and soothed the child with a soft pet, before rising to join the throng of wide-eyed two year olds.  As he moved, he felt the clear gaze of the copper haired youngling follow his every move.

With a quiet oomph, Qui-gon settled amongst the crowd of initiates, whose attention was drawn away from their master’s story telling by his approach.  They melted away from him, making space for the mountain of a Jedi Master, and maintained a small, speculative distance when he seated himself in their midst.  Qui-gon couldn’t help the smirk that crossed his lips—indeed he must look quite the giant to the little ones.

Their crèche master gave him a warm smile.  “Everyone, say hello to Master Jinn,” she prodded gently.

A timid, slightly sing-song reply, “Hello, Master Jinn.”

“Hello Younglings, welcome to the Temple.”  Qui-gon replied, doing his best not to laugh as one of the tiniest younglings, a Mon Calamari with luminous eyes, backed up further from the timbre of his voice.  “Please, Master…”

“Azah Ora,” the Togrutan replied with a smile.  “Would you care to help us continue this story?”

Qui-gon tilted his head in assent, “It would be my honor.”

Together, the two Jedi masters sunk into a light meditation.  The Force rose to their will and spun a narrative that enticed and taught the younglings.  It whispered of things that have passed, and things that have yet to be.  One by one, like the lights of Coruscant turning on as daylight fades to night, the younglings responded to the call in the Force.  It is only natural, of course, for it sung in their blood.  They joined the meditation-guised-as-stories with their own presence.  Each one a tiny note—distinct and delicate—guided by instinct.

_Still-calm waters on a planet far away_

_The warm brush of a master’s cloak against cold shoulders_

_The crash of ocean against dark granite cliffs_

_A bustling city, alight with more lives than you could count_

_Afternoon strolls in the marketplace_

_The cry of a bird of prey as it circles above head_

_The press of fur on a winter night_

_As the winds howl stories and the wolves respond_

_The crisp bite of sun-ripe fruit_

_Fed with loving fingers from a face already forgotten_

_The heat of twin suns scorch the sand at dawn_

_And radiate long after dusk has gone_

_A forest, long ago forgotten_

_Replaced with trees of durasteel and metal_

A deep breath fills his lungs, and escapes slowly out his nose as Qui-gon emerges from the story, feeling better than he had in weeks.  Around him, the new younglings slept in lumps, a jumble of limbs and slightly oversized tunics.  A warm, fuzzy head was tucked into his outer tunic, and Qui-gon couldn’t help the overwhelming smile and Force-strong sense of _rightness_ that clung to him as he cradled the copper headed youngling to his chest.

Lilac eyes gazed at him, with a knowing sheen—a premonition perhaps, or just the experience of long years raising the Jedi’s future. 

“How long has he been here?” Qui-gon asked, gently shifting the sleeping boy upwards, so that his head rested on his collar bone.

“He just arrived last month,” came the reply.

“He is strong in the Unifying Force.”  A statement, not a question.

Master Ora smiled a sad smile, “Indeed.  It has been speaking to him strongly since he was found and brought here.  Master Yoda feels it will subside as Obi-wan adjusts to his new surroundings.”

“Obi-wan,” Qui-gon tried the name. “He is from a desert planet?  Tatooine, or maybe Jakku?”

Deep blue striped lekku tickled the nose of a Zabrak youngling in her lap, who sneezed in protest, as the crèche master shook her head.  “No, I am told he was found and tested on Stewjon.”

Qui-gon blinked in surprise, unconsciously tightening his hold of the youngling.  “He is very prescient, then?”

“That is Yoda’s thought,” Master Ora agreed.  “For now, they seem to cause him nightmares.  I hope they will abate in time, once he finds a clan and settles into life here.  As he gains a better grasp on his mental shielding and the Force, we can teach him to control the worst of it.  Now, if I could beg your help?” The Togrutan master stood with the balanced ease of a care giver and gestured over towards a rack of fresh linens.

Qui-gon took a moment to digest the thought as he followed the crèche master to fetch more blankets, the more-trusting-in-sleep initiate still tucked into the crook of his shoulder.  _Crèche masters have far better balance than even the greatest masters of Soresu,_ he noted with wry amusement as he watched Azah lift an assortment of freshly laundered fleeces from a shelf with the Force, while simultaneously cradling the Zabrak youngling in one arm and another, tiny humanoid babe slung into her tabards.  He gently plucked a generous handful of the plush scraps of fabric from the air with his spare hand, and wandered back to the mats to cover the napping children.

“Is it always the same?” he asks.

Pale lavender eyes glance up at him.  “You mean the desert.”  She sets the Zabrak down, soothing him with feather-light touches of Force.

Qui-gon only huffs.  Master Ora’s tone spoke volumes, an underwritten tenor of what he already knew.  His spare hand unconsciously rises up to pat the back of the initiate in his arms.  Soft spun linens rise and fall with little breaths.  A cheek nuzzled into his collar bone speaks of trust and affection. 

Hesitantly, Qui-gon detached the sleeping bundle from his tunics and settled him in amongst the puddle of sleeping children.  The child, _Obi-wan_ he reminded himself, sighed in displeasure.  A ruffle of hair, a touch of Force-song reassurance and the child cooed with contentment again.  Qui-gon straightened with a twinge.  There was a murmur in the Force, but there was no time to ponder that now.  His reverie in the crèche was over.  Already, he could hear the fidgeting energy of his padawan through their training bond as morning classes came to a close. 

At the door, he turned back to the crèche master, who spoke her pleasantries and thanked him for his lessons today—since her charges were fast asleep and couldn’t do so.  Qui-gon nodded and turned to go, sparing one final glance back towards the bright-eyed child, whose auburn hair was only visible amidst the blankets and limbs.

“Repeated visions are frequently found to be true.” A fact—an uncomfortable truth had risen up in him in that final glimpse.

“Always in motion, the future is,” Master Ora quoted.


	4. Shadowy Seed, Red Rope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qui-Gon's padawan is gone, and he is doing his best to hold back the madness of the Dark Side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *bows down low* I am so sorry for this delay. International travel is a BEAST and it summarily kicked my ass for quite a while. But here it is! Finished! It is very rough, in my opinion, but I am not sure what else to edit/include. I struggled for a long time to portray depression as how I feel/felt it. It may not be quite right, but we all experience things differently.
> 
> Note: I don't mean for Yoda to feel coarse in this chapter, but in my mind, he doesn't see the depth of the problem (like many friends and family don't with depression).
> 
> Warnings: depression and thoughts of suicide.

_Am I with darkness fraught?_

_For in my eyes_

_I am blinded by what you wrought_

_I am but a silhouette_

_Against the backwash of your lies._

_You were my brother_

_My success—there will be no other_

_For in you, I should have seen_

_Between stark lines_

_Born true your father’s seed_

_Sown hatred in dark ground_

_Unmasked ‘neath coal hair fine_

_Brought unending grief_

_My life, my happiness—a thief_

_Perhaps it was my confidence_

_Both a virtue and a sin_

_My youth was prone to wantonness_

_Nay, even now I hear_

_Though I’d be spared of all the chagrin_

_If this were but a cruel joke_

_And suddenly I awoke_

_For now I walk a solitary path_

_Not fit for a companion_

_Spare them all the black wrath_

_Of my soul seeming incarnate_

_They say it is reckless abandon_

_On which I throw my lot_

_As if without thought_

_But no, let loneliness be my cloak_

_And my footfalls alone_

_One in the soot_

_From the wreckage_

-Scribbled in a hastier, heavier hand, as though as an afterthought-

_Until the Force calls me home._

*

Qui-Gon’s padawan was gone.  He was swallowed up by greed and hatred, and spat out as a dark and grimy reflection of the boy that Qui-Gon once knew.  How could he have been so blind?  Xanatos was so skillful, so beautiful in the Force, such a boon to the Temple.  Recollections of the child came flooding up from Qui-Gon’s memories, causing the headache pulsing at his temples to worsen.

The eerie silence of a transport flying through hyperspace certainly didn’t help matters, leaving him with nothing but his thoughts for a week as he returned from Telos alone.  Even the Force seemed to abandon him, as distraught as he was.  After reporting the failed mission to the council, Qui-Gon had taken a transport—alone—much to the dismay of Tahl and the rest of his companions.

He needed quiet.  He needed peace.  He couldn’t find his center, no matter how hard he reached for _the scurrying of little feet, the quiet breath of trees, the flash of life forces as he sped by, a shadow of a memory._   Usually, even in hyperspace he could find the Living Force, waiting to greet him like a breath of warm spring air.  Instead, when he settled onto the frigid durasteel deck, all that rushed up to meet him was _taciturn nothingness, like a rock long since shorn from a cliff, biting with teeth so cold it burned._  

Instead, he had stood and paced.  He tried to throw away his memories of Yoda’s sad, knowing eyes as he made his report.  The stern purple fire of Mace’s disappointment, almost visible through the holo.  The watery touch of Tahl at his side as he mourned his padawan’s passing and prepared the remains of the father.  He tried, and he failed, to release those thoughts upwards--outwards.  Instead, they swarmed around him like angry bees.

Perhaps things would be better on solid ground, within the temple.

*

Qui-Gon sat up with a groan.  The last few weeks were nothing but a haze to him.  Since arriving at the temple, he had wanted to do nothing but sleep and meditate.  Anything to forget the intense betrayal, the impending weight of guilt upon his chest.

The hardened skin on his palm roughed over his unkempt beard as he passed a hand over his eyes.  It had been 21 days, 22 hours and 47 minutes since his former padawan broke him.

“49 minutes,” he corrected himself wryly as he glanced at the chronometer.

At first, he had attempted to resume a normal life.  He trained in the salles.  He ate in the common rooms, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of Jedi in all walks of their lives.  He meditated—or rather, he tried to meditate.  He even, to the Council’s great surprise, visited the Halls of Healing to speak to a mind-healer once.  But nothing, not even the mind-healer’s not-so-gentle gaze, could break the unrelenting fog from Qui-Gon’s life.

Qui-Gon blinked back unnoticed tears and stared down at his breakfast.  It was difficult to find the will to continue when there was a dark, ravaging pain coursing through his every fibre.  Perhaps he should consider exhausting himself in the salles today.  Then maybe he could find some sleep and possibly the appetite that had fled him.  But the thought of leaving the sanctuary of his quarters and facing down _hastily glancing away padawans, curious initiates eyes, frowning discontent of masters and knights_ was too much for him to bear.

As he contemplated what to do with another exhausting day, the door to his chambers chimed.  He set down the spoon he hadn’t known he was holding, and stood to answer it.  He didn’t sense a visitor, so warped his touch with the Force was.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, my Master?” Qui-Gon asked quietly, as he stepped away from the door to allow the small green master inside.

“Enough of this sadness I have had,” Yoda huffed as he stepped into his quarters. “Lost a padawan, you have.  Grieve you must.”

Qui-Gon returned to the table to clear his cold, untouched tea away and prepare a fresh pot for his new arrival.

“I _am_ grieving, Master.”

A sharp crack of a gimer stick on wood floor startled the taller man, who nearly dropped the cup in his hands.

“Grieving you are not.  Moping you are.”

Qui-Gon sighed, “Is there a difference?”

“Difference there is!  Through grief, the pain we can turn to memories.  Grief, dark may be, but through grief new life you find.  New purpose.  Moping!  Nothing it does!  Help you, it does not.”  The little green master stood his ground near the door.

“I wasn’t aware, then, that I was moping,” Qui-Gon replied, suddenly disliking the look in the old Grandmaster’s eyes.

“To the crèche, with me, you will come.”

Qui-Gon had acquiesced with minimal complaint.  When the little green troll put his mind to something, ‘obey it you must’.  He hoped that Yoda was correct; that time with the little ones would ease the pressure of the vacuum that his padawan had left.  That, for one afternoon, the persistent stabbing wound in his heart where his Xan had once stood would be soothed.

_Pitter patter_

_Rain on window panes_

_The ever controlled, ever manipulated weather_

_A mirror to the turmoil_

_That wouldn’t budge from his heart_

_Around him_

_Pitter patter_

_Little feet and little hands_

_Rise up in happy chorus_

_A new face, a new lesson, new_

_Every day fresh and clean_

_Like a new piece of flimsy_

_Pitter patter_

_Tiny heads, big hearts_

_All a radiant aura in the force_

_And the littlest one_

_With hair like fresh spun copper wire_

_And eyes like the clearest sky_

_Pierced through him as though_

_He was a doctor_

_Examining a wounded patient_

_“Pitter patter”_

_His strained heart said_

_A struggle to not cry, to not scream_

_His shields, immaculately kept_

_Upon his return, erected with first steps on solid ground_

_Felt suddenly flooded_

_A sturdy dam, now weakened, overflowing_

_With darkness, anger, loss, hatred_

_Red and black and nothing and empty_

_Pitter patter_

_Booted feet_

_Calling in the retreat_

_Back to quarters where nothing but silence_

_Silence and no peace_

_Awaited him, and opened up_

_Like a gaping maw_

_To swallow him whole_

*

Back in his quarters following his hasty retreat from the crèche, Qui-Gon paced like a restless animal.  He had been doing fine until that one youngling had looked at him.  A simple gaze and it had felt as though the weight of Xanatos’s betrayal had been pierced and he would burst with rage and sadness.  With a quick nod to a concerned Master Ora, he had fled the younglings to his quarters to repair his fortitude and his shields.

Qui-Gon hurried to his meditation mat, annoyed with himself for allowing a youngling to eradicate his pristine shielding.  _How does a Jedi Master get foiled by a toddler?_ An angry voice within him taunted.  Qui-Gon growled in response as he settled into a lotus pose and set about to reach for his center.  _Deep breaths, sinking into loamy soil, searching for life like a newly-sprouted seedling searches for water._

Instead of meditating, however, he finds himself toying with the ragged edges of his bond with his padawan— _former_ padawan.  He had lied to the council—he said that Xanatos was dead.  He had said that Xanatos had burned to ashes with his father.  The heavy look from behind Yoda’s leaded eyelids spoke volumes of the truth he had yet to reveal.  But, the Grand Master had done nothing.  And so the lie stood firm.

Qui-Gon knew the truth.  Amidst the burned and frayed remains of the once strong chord between him and his Xanatos, there lay one tiny thread, razor thin and blood red.  He kept it heavily shielded, away from the rest of his mind.  It was a constant reminder that his padawan, his pride and joy, yet lived.  Xanatos lived in a darkened husk of a beaming life that he once had.

Qui-Gon dared not touch the brittle thing, lest it snap and shatter what was left of his weakening resolve.  He somehow doubted Xanatos even knew that a scrap of their bond still existed, twisting in the nether of the Force.  Instead, he tried to think of happier times, of faces full of smiles.

He strained to remember his time in the crèche, when things were simple and full of harmony.  He could almost remember Tahl’s eyes, full of laughter, as they discovered the Force and how to lift simple objects.  Those feelings of peace, long past, seemed just so far out of reach.  Discontented, Qui-Gon tried another memory.

A proud moment popped up to the forefront of his mind.  He was filled with a quiet pride as he felt the heavy weight of his Master’s hand on his shoulder.  Finally, he had successfully completed the first kata of Form II.  Weeks of painstaking training and extra hours in the salles had finally paid off with a rare compliment from the normally-stoic Dooku.  Yet, there was more to be done.  And compliments, as with all things from Dooku, came with a price.

_Besides,_ the thought came, unbidden, _Dooku would always see you for just your flaws.  For that is what you are, Jinn.  Flaws._

Qui-Gon’s eyes snapped open.  He was not one to dwell on dark thoughts, and yet they bubbled up like gas in a swamp.  With an irritated huff, he settled in on another memory, one of his most honored moments.  Ritual words were spoken, and with the hum of a lightsaber, his first padawan and his dearest brother, Feemor, became a Jedi Knight.  A swelling of light and hope bubbled up from that moment.

_And you,_ came the black voice again, _became a Jedi “Master”.  You were far too young, too inexperienced.  Feemor didn’t need you._

Qui-Gon abruptly stopped pacing, becoming suddenly aware that he was standing—not kneeling on his meditation mat like he had thought.  He hurriedly withdrew to the large window that looked out on the Coruscanti skyline.  At this time of night, the skylines were almost quiet, flowing like a lazy river into the evening.  Once more, he tried to calm the raging tempest in the Force around him, reaching for anything to bring him comfort and relief.

Unconsciously, a memory from two years’ prior floated to the surface.  A little boy, with eyes like the calm sea and hair ablaze with fire, watched him from across the room.  Already, the little one’s Force presence was alight with certainty.  His fate, nearly predetermined—and yet he was so full of potential.  Full of change. 

From his heart, Qui-Gon watched in horror as dark thorns rise out and wrap around the child.  He saw flashes of the future—training, successes, and subsequent failure after failure.  _A planet full of fire, screams and cries. A war unending, brought to life and kindled by none other than Qui-Gon Jinn, the maverick of the Jedi.  A failure breeds more failure._

_“You were my BROTHER!”_

With a blink, the dark vision ended, and Qui-Gon’s cheeks were wet with tears.  All that evil, all that pain, from a little boy so bright.  His Xan had been so bright once too.  Everything Qui-Gon touched was wrought with agony and madness.  No more.

He sits, scraping the chair along the floor in haste.  Tonight, the circle of destruction and misery ends.  _The scratching of pen, the tearing of paper, it seals my fate tonight_. He thinks, both content and disappointed.

He leaves the torn piece of flimsy on the coffee table under his favorite cup of tea, still untouched:

_I go tonight to where I met_

_My dark seed, my deepest treasure_

_My son, my sacrifice_

_And in the thousand sparkling waters_

_Black with the shroud of night_

_I pray the Force will take me home_

_Nay, I shall demand the Force_

_Swallow up my soul_

_And deliver me unto the void_


	5. A Rose's Lariat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four-year-old Obi-Wan is awoken late at night by a vision. Something is in great pain, and he will follow the Force to their aid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got really hung up on an unexpected second poem in iambic pentameter. But, I finally managed to get my verses to obey me. :3 (Take that, Shakespeare!! *shakes fist*)
> 
> Thank you all for your kudos and kind comments, I really love them! They keep me writing! :D
> 
> Warnings: (heavily implied) attempted suicide, angst all up in here

_The moonlight filtered in upon his dreams_

_Parting the cloudy nightmares on his path_

_Warming his tiny limbs as if a bath_

_Had bubbled up—though not all as it seemed_

_For typically a pasture did he play_

_From recollection formed, a gentle laugh_

_While grass around him gave it music staff_

_And in his center—home—a place to lay_

_A meadow of mem’ries to stave his fright_

_And hide from desert sands—a brief respite_

_But on this eve, it seemed a voice did call_

_Through nether twisted heard he the beckon_

_Becoming more desolate by the second_

_He worried what horrors the soul befell_

_With hurried feet he left shelter behind_

_And harkened towards a river, deep and full_

_He waded through their rapids and their pull_

_Moved closer to the falls, the call to find_

_More desperate the cries began to chime_

_As if the wailing words knew more than time_

_And from a tree, the river did well up_

_So ventured he deeper into the bough_

_Where once were living things—rend flesh, torn raw_

_And nightmare’s creatures now upon them sup_

_His heart did twist around the pain—decayed_

_As though it’s essence had been rotted out_

_Replaced with fetid flesh, abhorrent grout_

_Upon his core did haste brook no delay_

_So scurried up a long and well-worn path_

_Into a sanctum—hidden aftermath_

_Unto his chest his heart did stop and catch_

_Before him now, amidst a fountain’s shine_

_A limp and swinging void, a blackened vine_

_A grizzly sight—upon his soul did wretch_

_But ‘ere he felt a weakened green flutter_

_A lonely leaf amongst the reddened sight_

_A single strand of hope, a flash of light_

_Feather touch—and through his body—shudder_

_A sense of urgency—he could but mind_

_A vision of the place in which to find_

Obi-Wan opened his eyes.  From the filtered starlight that dimly lit the crèche, he could tell that it was still quite late at night.  Around him, his fellow crèche-mates slept soundly, contentment and faint hints of dreaming lapping at his mind through the Force.  He rubbed his eyes and swung his legs over the frame of the bed.

Something was wrong.  He knew it—the Force whispered it to him urgently, in the little part of his mind he knew to trust.  Often, the Force sent him warnings—from what foods to avoid in the mess hall, to when to grab Bant’s tunic to spare her a collision with a fellow Initiate.  It was like a best friend, constantly there, murmuring advice and feelings.  Sometimes, it would send him untold horrors in his dreams or meditations—but Master Yoda had long since taught him how to find comfort amidst swirling sands and raging storms.

Soft feet slid into well-worn slippers, and Obi-Wan was on the prowl.  The night was cool, so as an afterthought he snagged the top duvet from his pile of pillows and blankets, and wore it as a cowl above his head.  The good boy in him knew that a four-year-old Initiate out of bed would be grounds for a fierce scolding, but the growing feeling of _not right, not right, hurry, hurry, hurry_ grew in him and he ignored the inevitable trouble he would be in.

The Jedi Temple at night was a thing to marvel at.  During the day, the Temple was warm and full of life—the Force flew through it as though a spring river was overrun with the winter-melt.  Obi-Wan and his fellow initiates would dash through the halls, snagging a hug here, a sweet there.  There were always big hands, paws, or suckers to pick them up and shower them in affection.

At night, however, Obi-Wan found the Temple to be eerie and almost haunted.  The Force drifted aimlessly through the sleeping hallways.  Giant windows opened to the Coruscanti skyline and let the drifting headlights scatter across the polished marble floors.  If it wasn’t for the constant breath of every Jedi in the Temple, Obi-Wan would be sure that the place was abandoned.

_The halls, though silent now, were once with life_

_Millenniums of teachers, students, knights_

_Now lost amid a tempest—swirl of strife_

_Abandoned long ago, forgotten sight_

_When friends upon the Temple marched awol_

_Left not but blaster marks upon bare walls_

_‘cause nary does a Jedi now take breath_

_Under the yolk of darkness and despair_

_A fading man, a troll on brink of death_

_Watch over two twin suns, a sacred pair_

_Upon their backs the murdered younglings scream_

_In blindness did they miss the dusk blaspheme_

Just as suddenly as the vision came, it ebbed away with a blink of his eyes.  Obi-Wan pouted, now was not the time to show him stories—horror stories no less!  The Force was urging him onward to something that was happening now!  In response, he felt a flicker of something he would eventually know as bemusement through the stream of Force in his mind.

With one last mental scowl, he sensed he had arrived at the crux of the disturbance. Obi-Wan surveyed his surroundings.  His feet had carried him to one of the large, cavernous meditation rooms and he knew at once where he was.  Melodious chimes of water echoed high into the windowed rafters of the Room of a Thousand Fountains.

Obi-Wan paused for a moment.  This room was strictly forbidden alone.  As an Initiate, he had been brought here many times to learn to float and swim.  He had often also accompanied Master Ora and Bant here alone to help his friend’s skin.  As such, Obi-Wan was a proficient swimmer for his age…but he knew this was a cardinal no-no that he shouldn’t be breaking.

 _Hurry, anger, pain, sadness…_ The Force urged.

Obi-Wan tilted his head.  He saw no immediate danger—no red lightsabers in the dark that Master Giiett’s stories spoke of.  There were no monsters or bounty hunters either.  For that, Obi-Wan was thankful.  He wasn’t sure he was ready to fight bad-guys just yet.  He summoned his courage—and the heavy feathered duvet—around him like a shield and ventured further into the Room.

Quietly, as though heavily muted by water or cloth or earth, Obi-Wan began to hear something.  It rose from the same place in his heart that he had followed in his dream.  _My son, my star.  I cannot…I must not…pain, anguish, death…_

Obi-Wan hurried forward, abandoning his slightly-oversized slippers in his haste.  Ahead, just behind one of the largest waterfalls in the Room, he could feel it.  Little feet ran over wooden bridges and across mossy stones until a figure became apparent, huddled in the corner of the cave hidden by the waterfall.  Obi-Wan came to an abrupt halt, panting slightly.

The Force rolled in angry waves off the hunched form, which he could now identify as a Jedi of some sort.  _Here_ , the Force told him, quietly.  Obi-Wan nodded, and wrapped his blanket tighter around his shoulders as he stepped forward.

“Hello?”  He tried, timidly.

The figure before him hardly stirred.  Obi-Wan inched closer.

“Master…?” He asked again, this time louder.

The anguished Jedi Master hunched into himself further and Obi-Wan stopped a breath away from him.  Around him, the Force cracked and popped with darkness and red-hot anger.  With a shudder, Obi-Wan instinctively reached for his tiny center.  After a moment of thought, he stepped bravely forward and pried his way into the Master’s lap.

From the moment a Jedi Initiate steps foot in the Temple, they become adored and adopted into the Jedi family.  Countless cuddles and hugs remind each Initiate that they are loved and wanted and that they will be guided on their life path.  Obi-Wan knows the power of a hug. 

“Remember, Obi,” whispered Master Ora in his memories. “Actions and touches are some of the most powerful forms of communication.  Actions are always louder than words.”

The truth of his Crèche Master’s advice rung true as he felt the Master engulf him in strong arms, almost as if by instinct.  The Force around them hung heavy, and dripped into Obi-Wan’s mind like dark, sticky sludge.  His impulse was to recoil and push away, but his bravery won out.  The Force around the Master may feel deadly, but in his center he finds his peace, as tiny as it might be.

Instead, Obi-Wan tucked himself further into the giant Jedi’s tunics.  He jolted with surprise and alarm when he heard no steady heartbeat in the great man’s chest.  So _that’s_ what the heavy feeling in the Force was.  Panic seeded its fingers into Obi-Wan’s heart as the realization dawned: this Jedi was trying to die.

Obi-Wan’s mind dwelled on the concept of death in confusion for a moment, until he felt the Force nudge him.  For the first time, he looked at the Master in whose lap he sat.  Large, dark rings surrounded sunken eyes that were screwed shut in what seemed to be a painful meditation.  A scraggily beard grew wildly unkempt, and long hair tangled around the man’s shoulders and hung in heavy mats down his back.  He reached out with tiny hands and gently touched the man’s cheek.

_Cold clammy skin_

_Please, death, release me_

_Gods let me die tonight_

_Let this torment, this suffering, suffice_

Obi-Wan snatched his hand back in disbelief.  Again, the Force whispered to him, urging him to reach the Master in the Force.  He acquiesced, and settled his heart down, like he had learned.  After anchoring himself in the moment, Obi-Wan reached out towards the man’s presence in the Force.  He could sense the Master, barely, as though he was just a simple form of life.  He felt, to Obi-Wan’s untrained senses, like a tree or a flower—not like the vibrancy of other Jedi, whose emotions he could usually sense when they passed by.

Undeterred, Obi-Wan opened his mind’s eye.

_On a field of grass, battered by the ocean’s gales,_

_Obi-Wan stood looking up at a dark durasteel wall._

_It blotted out the noon-time sky_

_With its ominous shadow._

Obi-Wan remembered his manners, from a meditation lesson during one of his first months at the Temple.  He remembered the kindly golden-eyed Master and the lopsided grin of Master Giiett as he learned to push and pull ideas and emotions in the Force.  Most of all, he remembered Master Yoda patiently reminding them to always knock when they visit another’s mind for the first time.

_So, with a tentative tendril of thought,_

_Obi-Wan knocked._

_For a breath of a moment, he waited,_

_The wind ruffling his hair_

_Shuffling his feet in the murmuring grass_

_And then slowly, as if it was too afraid to exhale,_

_The durasteel parted, like a curtain made of heavy velvet_

Then, it came—a tsunami against his fleeting mental shields.  A torrent of anguish, emotions that Obi-Wan had never felt, let alone knew how to interpret, smashed against his mind at full force.  Instinctively, he winced and pulled back both mentally and physically.  Strong arms wrapped tight around his shoulders and he was trapped, drowning alongside this giant Master in a whirlpool of depression.

Obi-Wan reached for the Force, panicking—his Force—and found it, though nearly inaudible amidst the gales that swirled around them.  It offered him up a sliver of memory: at night, when the nightmares of things that have yet to pass were too much for him to bear, Master Ora would appear at his bedside.

“What’s wrong, youngling mine?” She would coo, in a small voice.

“A nightmare…it…I…,” Obi-wan would always reply, through tears.  For no matter how brave he tried to be, the nightmares always won out and left him in terror.

Then, with a quiet song and a soothing hand, Master Ora would weave the Force around him, like a blanket.  She tamed his worries with fond memories and happy moments.

Obi-Wan understood.  He summoned up all his courage and tried to drop into his center once more.  The roaring hurricane around him made it an attempt in futility, and so he tried Master Ora’s other tactics instead.  With a timid hand, he reached up to the Master’s face again and placed his palm straight against his cheek.  Ignoring the sudden pain that lanced into his mind from the contact, Obi-Wan began calmly sending soothing feelings through his palm into the storm.

_The taste of freshly squeezed muja juice_

_After a meal of eggs and hot cakes and meat griddled until it was crisp_

_The laughter that filled the crèche following a mid-day jaunt_

_To the salles where the knights would play with them_

_And fly them with Force-given wings like little jets_

_The quiet contentment of waking from a nap_

_To the sounds of rain lapping gently at the windows_

_And soft sighing of your friends around you_

_Hidden amidst a pile of futons and blankets._

Obi-Wan’s eyes snapped open as the Master began to openly weep.  Great, shuddering sobs raced through his large frame and shook Obi-Wan as they passed.  Obi-Wan found himself gathered up closer into the man’s chest as it heaved, and he nuzzled his face into the crook of the Master’s shoulder in comfort.  He cooed the little noises he had heard the Crèche Master make in times of distress. Around them, the torrential onslaught of dark Force began to ebb away.  The danger had yet to pass, but it seemed that Obi-Wan had found shelter for the time being.

Careful not to disturb the Master, whose cries continued to wail into the vaulted ceiling, Obi-Wan reached out to the Jedi of the Temple as he was taught to do.

“Remember, you must, younglings,” Master Yoda had said.  “If trouble you find, reach us you always can.  With your feelings, call you can.”

From his _cool, wind shorn grass_ Obi-Wan reached outwards.  He felt the tug of the Force that currented through the Temple.  He followed it with his mind, probing, searching for figures he knew.  He could not yet speak through the Force, but he knew how to project ideas and images.  Nearly immediately, he felt the chartreuse light that he knew to be Yoda answered his calls.

 _What, youngling?_ He felt the old Grandmaster’s voice rather than heard.

 _Sickeningly sweet fruit of demise, overripe with sticky red sap, dribbled down into his heart…_ Obi-Wan did his best to project the feeling of death that hung around him.

The feeling of Yoda blinked, _Where?_

 _Tinkling voices of water, rushing over rock and through rivulets of stone_ , Obi-Wan sent.

 _Soon, come we will,_ came Master Yoda’s reply.  _Stay, tightly hold on you will._

Obi-Wan faintly sensed the Grandmaster awaken others.  He felt the violet fire of Master Mace, who loves to toss Initiates high into the sky as if they were lighter than air.  He also felt the gentle hazel wood of a Master he knew, with bright honey eyes, who told the best of stories.  As he dropped from the Force around him, he could feel more and more motes awaken to Master Yoda’s call, and he felt relief.

Content with the knowledge that help was fast approaching, Obi-Wan reached into the himself once more.  With the Force no longer at a gale around them, he could touch and manipulate his own core again.  He found himself, not in his meadow as he usually did, but deep within a forest, at the edge of a once-remembered grotto.

_A path worn by years of use, straight to the heart-tree_

_A reminiscence, brought to spring here_

_Where water gurgled and frolicked amid fallen leaves and reaching roots_

_It was darker than it should be_

_But it wasn’t the barren place he had seen before_

_Here, at least, life was still fighting_

_As it always does, searching for light to sprout and roots to reach_

There, at the base of the heart-tree, sat a man who wore an expression of confusion and sadness beyond repair.  Obi-Wan stepped forward, unafraid.  The Force was singing rightness in his ears, and he followed its song towards the figure.

_Bare feet in cool water_

_A relief from late spring’s heat_

_The man, whose scraggly chestnut hair seemed cleaner here_

_Looked up at him_

_And he watched a faint green aura flicker_

_As a whiff of pine and herb passed him by_

The Master had noticed him now, trespassing as Obi-Wan was upon his sanctuary.  Wary eyes pinned him in place, and he floundered, unsure for a moment.   The Master’s gaze flicked away from him to look at a shriveled bush that Obi-Wan knew from the Temple gardens as a rose.  The plant no longer bloomed, but it still coiled, thorny and red, around a section of roots that spread from the great heart-tree.  He could see prickly vines reaching down into the wellspring, where it seemed to drink greedily.

_Grasping, reaching, wanting_

_Covetous little needles reach out again for the giant_

_And prick little droplets of blood_

_Upon which to sup_

_Scarlet for scarlet, it stretches for an ankle and latches on_

The sight of the dead-yet-alive scrub made Obi-Wan’s skin crawl and he knew that something must be done.  It seemed the great Master was content to sit and let the parasite feast.  Again, the Force murmured to him and so he stepped forward to stand before the man-who-nearly-fell.  Here, where the Force flowed through the trees as familiar and unfamiliar as time, Obi-Wan opened his mouth and spoke for the first time into the vision.

_“Hello,” he called softly.  A voice, with a hint of surprise, melodious and deep._

_The Master’s body went rigid and suddenly Obi-Wan was falling…falling into oblivion until…_

He opened his eyes and was met with blood-shot cobalt staring into his sea-foam blue.  Around him, the sounds of the real world were returning, and he could hear boot-falls on gravel path.  The hushed noise of urgent whispers filtered in as well, but in that moment, all Obi-Wan could focus on was the gravelly voice of the Jedi Master who held him.

“Hello.”


	6. Shattered, but Freshly Spun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qui-Gon recovers following the incident in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, and the Force broadcasts a shatterpoint to the whole Temple. Things change and time passes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy. I am alive. The end of January through mid-April is the busiest season for me. Now that I am a bit less busy, I should be able to put out chapters more frequently. Dear readers, you have my sincerest apologies!
> 
> That being said, please enjoy this gloriously un-beta'd chapter. Please leave any critiques/comments below for me, I do love reading them! :D

Qui-Gon had been aware of an insistent pulling at the vines that shuttered away his heart.  It hadn’t been until that moment, however, trapped amidst the ever-changing sea in the eyes of the Initiate he held, that he realized just how far down the path of darkness he had travelled.  In that one moment, he had felt more peace, love, and acceptance than in all of his years prior…and in the many long years since.

He saw the potential of the child, of course.  But beyond that, lost in the rolling foam of the youngling’s soul, he saw the Force for what it truly was.  He found peace and rightness amidst crashing waves and wind-worn grass.  Within the whipping wind and foam, there was a presence that clung to him, whispering of life and love and light—the likes of which Qui-Gon had never known.

And then, the moment was shattered and Qui-Gon wailed in surprise as hands roughly grasped his shoulders and plucked the youngling from his lap.  Distantly, he heard a young child’s cries echo through the hall behind Mace’s angry bellows.

“Little gods,” came the Korun’s baritone voice. “What have you done!”

Qui-Gon didn’t respond, but to struggle against the hands that held him, eyes frantically scanning the growing crowd for the little one who instilled such warmth and comfort in him.  Those stormy eyes that held more stories and carried more weight than even the wisest of them all had escaped him.  That lone moment would haunt him for many years to come.

His heart ran cold, and the prickling vines of self-doubt began to close in upon his heart once more, just as Mace’s strong hands shook him from his reverie.  Blinking, Qui-Gon stared up at the man, whose aura in the force blazed an angry violet.

“Wh-what happened?” he managed to ask, through a hoarse throat.

“You’re asking _me_ that?” Mace gave him an incredulous look. “Do you realize what you had almost done?!?”

Qui-Gon looked inward for a moment, then recoiled.  “I nearly died.”

“You damn nearly killed an Initiate too, you arrogant fool!  What were you thinking?” Mace asked while scooping Qui-Gon into his arms as if he were an impudent child.

“I…I don’t know…Mace, I’m sorry…” The words that Qui-Gon floundered for died on his lips as the man clutched him closer and Qui-Gon could sense the underlying fear and grief beneath the anger.  Emotional chocolate eyes looked down at him, but before Qui-Gon could respond, two gnarled fingers were against his temple and he felt the Force rise up.

“Sleep, you will.”

The next few weeks were a blur of Healing Halls and mind healers.  _A child, asleep on a bed, around him machines beeped and whirred.  Clear eyes later, watching from behind long tunics, the distance across the hall seemingly too great._   _Talks, over acrid tea leaves long cold, destructive thoughts released into the air, where the Force welcomed them into the ether.  A feeling, thought lost, of wholeness, descended upon him._

*

The chrono on his mantle chimed quietly and Qui-Gon looked up from his flimsy.  It was a trifle, given to him years ago by Tahl and Micah as a name-day gift.  Yet he loved the little chrono, made with real wood native to Kashyyyk and tiny metal sprockets that ticked and whirred as the little machine counted time.  The soothing chimes sounded every quarter hour, reminding Qui-Gon to be always in the present, in the moment.  It was a reminder he had sorely needed after the loss of his former padawan, and it is a reminder of the love his friends share for him.

Sometimes, however, in the depth of the night, Qui-Gon’s self-doubt would come creeping in, like a strangling vine, prickly with thorns, upon a freshly planted garden.  Today was one of those days, he could feel it heavy on his heart.  Again, Master Yoda had come to him, imploring him to take a padawan.  Again, Qui-Gon had vehemently declined.

It wasn’t as though he wasn’t lonely—on the contrary, Qui-Gon was incredibly lonely.  It was just the particular padawan that Yoda _insisted_ he take.   With a sigh, he stood and put away his pen and flimsy.  He was teaching a class in introductory diplomatic solutions in an hour, he might as well get ready and head over to the lecture halls.  The diminutive green Grandmaster had also insisted that he teach for a month or two instead of, how had Mace put it, “traipsing across the known universe.”

After the incident nearly nine years ago, Qui-Gon had spent months confined to the Temple halls, attending therapy with the mind-healers and spending hours in the gardens meditating.  Once he was feeling more up to it, he had begun teaching.  He became well known in that first year for being an excellent Junior Padawan sparring Master, and was frequently on rotation for seminars on how to prevent negotiations from becoming “aggressive” (and what to do when, inevitably, they do).

He stopped momentarily at the small dressing table against the wall that flanked his bedroom from his bathroom.  With an appraising eye, he gave his appearance a once over.  Well-worn blue eyes stared back at him and cedar strands of hair, streaked with wisps of white, had wiggled loose of their bonds and framed his forehead.  He roughed a hand over his beard, and reminded himself that a trim was well in order.

With a quick nod to his reflection, Qui-Gon gathered up his books and materials and swept into the busy hallway of the Temple.  He let his thoughts flit away into the stream of consciousness that filled the halls, rushing like a rain-fed river, full of life and potential.

*

Things truly began to change when Yoda appeared in his quarters one night, several weeks following the incident, unbidden.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, Master?” Qui-Gon had asked, his tone mild.

Yoda situated himself on one of the high chairs to the dining table.  With a deliberateness that indicated something heavy was soon to be at hand, the Grandmaster set his gimer stick on the table before him and folded his claws.

“Tea, do you have?” He asked, with a voice smaller than Qui-Gon had ever heard before.

Qui-Gon had nodded and set about to brew the Grandmaster’s sort of tea.  Soon, the apartment was full of a rich, almost smoky aroma of green tea.  Setting the earthenware tea set onto the table, Qui-Gon dutifully poured Yoda a steaming mug, who had accepted it readily.  He then helped himself and sat opposite the small Master, waiting patiently.

Yoda cupped the mug in both hands, inhaling the fragrant mossy-green liquid that flooded the room with _bright leaves in the sunlight, dried until the curled in the heat of the summer’s sun_. 

“Apologies, I must give to you, padawan mine.”

Qui-Gon had said nothing, but stared above his steaming cup of tea.

“Neglected your suffering, I did.  Your pain, see I did not.  Sorry, I am, that desperate you became,” Yoda solemnly bowed his head.  “Many wrongs have I done, many pains ignored.  Master Jinn, your forgiveness I ask.”

Ritual words, in the Grandmaster’s own way.  Qui-Gon couldn’t help but feel a start of surprise as he began them.  As quickly as the feeling came, it passed, and the Force gathered around them in healing.

Hands reached across the table, engulfing little claws in a sturdy grasp.  “Master Yoda, I accept your apologies.  Let the bygones be by, and let us move forward with the Force.”  More ritual words, releasing the past and absolving the future.  The Force accepted them, and cleansed the room like purifying fire.

The old Grandmaster smiled a smile reserved for few.  Qui-Gon couldn’t help but return the gesture.

A few minutes later, after the room had filled with the warmth of the Force Contented, Yoda stirred and gave Qui-Gon’s hands a gentle squeeze.

“Felt, you did, Mace’s shatterpoint?” The little green troll asked, his voice thick.

Qui-Gon nodded.  When it had come, he had just been returning from the Halls, dragging his heavy limbs into his quarters.  His thoughts, however, were lighter than they had been in what seemed like ages.  Fortunately, he had just plopped himself onto his sofa, a plate of cheese and crackers in hand for a midday snack, when it overtook him.

_A rupture through the room, the temple floor_

_Was shattered lavender, a soul laid bare_

_Carried through flowing river, temple’s soar_

_And touched the minds of every Jedi there_

_A warning—stark—of future yet to pass_

_A storm befit of monsters—a dark that last_

_Of sand and strife there borne a child fair_

_Whose light and strength would shape the world’s own core_

_Cast deep of night, draw tight the Sithly veil_

_And drag thy sickly plight into the fore_

_Where planets, once true friends, will turn their back_

_And let thy lofty home given to sack_

_For bright may be the child of the sand_

_But suffocate within the Order fold_

_Too tight! The rules will burn the boy and brand_

_The gentl’st souls will fall from wounds untold_

_For flourish not within steel walls confined_

_But languish in slow death of thine contrived_

_Upon bare walls the blood of Younglings flow_

_When dashed upon the council’s burning sun_

_Cut down by friendly hand, a well-known foe_

_The streets of Coruscant will nowhere run_

_A crème and brown defender found no more_

_Forgotten and extinct a race of lore_

_Man made—a moon will rise upon fair skies_

_With fire shall it purge the last of fight_

_A man-machine, who lives a hollowed life_

_Strikes fear upon the remnants of the light_

_The last of us, turned old from burdens borne_

_Will sacrifice himself, to death he scorned_

_Should Jedi not accept the change of fate_

_Allow the ties that bind to fall aside_

_By hands none but thy own will darkness sate_

_And cast all lives into a rolling tide_

_Where balance can’t be had, a broken lie_

_And hope upon false twins must bear and fly_

Qui-Gon had awoken from the vision with a splitting headache.  It seemed he had fainted shortly after the shatterpoint had ripped through his shields, flooding him with visions of decay, darkness, and machines.  There was more to the vision than what he had seen, but the overwhelming sense of dread and death made it clear enough why the Force had given a glimpse to him.

After regaining his senses enough to stand, Qui-Gon had shuffled to the door.  Leaning on the frame, he looked into the hallway, where a few Jedi who had collapsed after the vision were coming to.  He could feel the buzzing tension in the flow of Force in the Temple, and he made his way tentatively into the common halls to await an explanation.

Instead, he saw Mace, pale and unconscious, carried from the Council Chambers towards the Halls of Healing.  Qui-Gon would never forget the uncomfortable twitching in his friend’s hands as they passed him by.  With a deep breath, Qui-Gon released his anxieties to the Force and joined the swelling crowd as one by one, the Jedi assembled knelt in meditation.

*

The Temple itself, it seemed, had gone through a sort of rebirth following what had transpired in the Room of a Thousand Fountains and the warning Mace’s shatterpoint had provided.  The Council, mainly Yoda, Mace, and a handful of others, had reviewed their tenants and adherence to the code and found it lacking.  

The day following Yoda’s unexpected visit and apology, all Jedi on-world had been summoned to the Room of a Thousand Fountains.  There, he had declared, on the very fountain where Qui-Gon had attempted to die, that too strict the Jedi had become, that more welcoming we should be.  Afterwards, there had been a great confusion, followed by a great blooming of life and prosperity in the Temple.

A week following the shatterpoint, Qui-Gon had just finished sparring with the Senior Initiates when he felt the rough, grey presence of his former Master approach.  Before he could open his mouth to speak, he found himself swept into dark silk tunics, a hand firmly on his back and his neck.  Surprised, Qui-Gon reached into the Force, gently touching the place where his training bond with the Master had once stood.

A torrent of emotion—fear, pride, joy, and a hint of something he guessed as love, buffeted him briefly.  Qui-Gon lifted his arms to return the embrace, fingers hesitantly swirling on his former Master’s back in comfort.  He could feel the tension in his Master beneath the calm surface.

“You will never scare me again like you did,” a soft voice whispered in his ear.  It wasn’t the demand it appeared, but a request.

“Yes, my Master,” Qui-Gon replied quietly.

Master Dooku broke the hug with a sigh, holding Qui-Gon at arm’s length as he gave his former Padawan the once over.  Qui-Gon did his best to conceal the flinch that always came with that appraising look, and to his surprise, his former Master’s face softened.

“I am on planet for at least a month.  Come dine with me this week,” Dooku tried.

Qui-Gon hesitated for but a parsec, then acquiesced, “I would be honored.”

Dining with his former Master became a near monthly occurrence.  Qui-Gon would find his personal datapad alight with the request every time Dooku returned from off world and the two would meet across Coruscant to spend a few hours in conversation.  Qui-Gon had come to find that time with his former Master was not so terrible as it had once been.  In fact, to his amusement, he had come to look forward to these meals as the highlight of his month.

Dooku’s sudden affection was not the only change to envelop the temple following “the Event”, as it was named.  More and more initiates were taken as Padawans, from all walks of life in the Temple.  Some Masters even took on two or three.  Moreover, pairbonding ceremonies became more frequent—tentatively at first, but soon nearly half of the temple had entered into some sort of relationship.

Qui-Gon wistfully remembers the day Tahl and Micah came to him, all smiles and joy, and asked him to bear witness to their official bonding ceremony.  Qui-Gon wasn’t surprised, following his apprenticeship to Master Dooku, he and Tahl had slowly drifted apart, as was the case with most freshly knighted youth in the Jedi.  She had found a home, a heart in Micah Giiett, and Qui-Gon accepted the offer with muted joy.  Again, it seemed, he found himself alone and yet not alone.

He immersed himself briefly in that recollected day, in the late Coruscanti spring, when the Room of a Thousand Fountains was alight with beautiful white flowers and Tahl’s hair was spun up with golden lace.  Micah had even managed to clean himself up and get into proper dress robes, though Mace had conspiratorially confided in him that it had required much badgering from several of the other Knights from their Padawan Class.  They seemed a perfect pair, brass and gold, sharp metal and sweet honey—Qui-Gon found himself surprisingly at peace.

He knew, regretfully, that perhaps in another time, and in another space, perchance he and Tahl would have…

_Like a quiet surge, the Force calls_

_A gentle nudge and a whisper_

_Of honey and tea_

_And a bumble bee passing by_

_In a long search for nectar and pollen_

_But there, beyond possibility_

_The wind whispers of the ocean_

_Rough and wavy_

_Calm and swirling_

_And he breathes in the air_

_Heavy with salt, sand, and trade-wind fair_

Qui-Gon had blinked, suddenly absolved of his longings of could-have-beens, and found himself under scrutiny from a pair of Initiate’s eyes.  The youngling stood with his peers, holding the hand of a small Mon Calmari, who was nearly squealing in excitement.  Suddenly aware that he had been noticed, the Initiate gave him a small, knowing smile, and returned his attention to the ceremony at hand.

*

Qui-Gon sighed.  It had been like this for nine years.  Passing glances in the halls, the occasional chance encounter in a meditation room or in the baths behind the training salles.  For nine years, Qui-Gon had done his utmost to avoid the child whose life he nearly stole.  Yet, fate—or more likely the Force—kept having them meet, kept pulling like an incessant child on the strings of their mother’s apron.

To make matters worse, it seemed the whole Temple conspired to see him take the youngling as a Padawan.  Several more competent masters and knights had met with the poor child, but every one of them had declared that it wasn’t meant to be.  Yoda and the council had summoned him on numerous occasions to make their wishes clearly known.  Even Tahl and Micah, who typically at least had a sliver of sympathy for him, agreed that the child was meant to be his to train.

Qui-Gon adjusted his folo and datapad in his arms as he waited for the lift to open.  With his thoughts still dwelling on the incessant nagging of the upper echelon of the Jedi, he hardly had a moment to react before he was smashed into by something against his legs.

“Oof! Oh s-sorry…”came a clear, small voice.

Qui-Gon stiffened as he noted the copper hair and the crisp, already-too-refined Coruscanti accent of the youngling he’d been attempting to avoid.

“And what in the world has a youngling in such a hurry?” He asked, surprised at the bemused hint that slipped into his voice.

Obi-Wan looked up at him, his eyes bright and his face flushed from running. 

“I am supposed to attend your lecture, Master Jinn,” He replied, giving a polite nod.  If the Initiate felt any of the awkwardness in the air around Qui-Gon, he made no note of it in his expression or in the Force around him.

“Are you indeed?” Qui-Gon asked, holding his arm out to keep the door of the lift open as it arrived and they stepped in.  “I am discussing the Treaty of Versalyn, not quite as interesting as the Great Negotiations of Tatooine, I assure you.”

Sea-green eyes flashed up at him and the initiate smiled, “Negotiations?  But I thought you fought…”  The child trailed off as he realized the jest.  Mortified, the little one fidgeted with his slightly oversized tabards, which had gone astray in his collision.

“Aggressive negotiations are often the preferred topic of Initiates,” Qui-Gon replied gently.

Obi-Wan nodded and shuffled his feet, clearly still embarrassed about the joke he had not grasped.

Before he could consider his action, Qui-Gon bent and with a swift tug righted the askew tabard on the Initiate.  “Why, Initiate Kenobi, are you interested in a more mild treaty?”

The little one glanced up at him, “Because Master Ora says I have a gift for speaking.  She says you’re one of the best speakers in the Order and I should ‘listen well to you.’”

Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow.  Before he could reply, the durasteel doors of the lift hissed open and the Initiate quickly jumped from the elevator, eyes searching for friends amidst the milling crowd of Initiates, Padawans, and handful of Knights who had come for the seminar.  Qui-Gon inhaled deeply, letting the rising feeling of pressure in the back of his temples release into the Force around him.

As he stepped out of the lift to follow the red-haired child into the crowd, he spotted Yoda in the distance, already perched in a seat in the forward corner of the lecture hall.  His spine stiffened as he felt the strong, Force-borne approval wash over him from the Grandmaster. 

Today, he inferred, he would no longer be given a choice about the Initiate.


	7. Casting On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a transport bound for Bandomeer, Obi-Wan remembers some wise words and a discovery of his own. He does his best to remain confident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are! A little later than I would have liked, but I wished to take more time to edit it.
> 
> Thank you all for your kind words and kudos! I hope you enjoy! :D

**Chapter 7:**

Obi-Wan tugged at his tabards, a final attempt to get them aligned before the transport docked.  They—he and Master Qui-Gon Jinn—were in route for a provisional mission on the Outer Rim planet Bandomeer.  The Agricultural branch of Jedi, formerly part of the Corps, had requested that a formal Knight team be brought in to aid in negotiations between the planet’s two major factions.  Obi-Wan remembered the terse voice of Master Voylan, an imposing Mirialan with tattoos swirling across his brow and down the left half of his face.

*

“The native inhabitants of Bandomeer,” the holo of Master Voylan said, “the Meerians, are rather split on how to handle their homeworld.  Mining for ionite has destroyed vast swathes of country side and many would see this practice ended.  Offword Mining Corporation, on the other hand, would see the entire planet mined dry.”

“I see,” Master Jinn had begun from the center of the Council Chamber, two steps before Obi-Wan. “And if Offworld continues in it’s greedy campaign, the planet will be left…”

“…A hunk of rock and nothing more.” Master Voylan finished.  “Indeed, myself and my Padawan have been helping the remnants of the Meerian population grow and replenish their farm lands as best we can…but the expansion of the mining company is growing too fast for us to handle.”

*

Obi-Wan sighed and let go of his tabards.  They would be a lost cause until he grew another inch or two and so he instead tightened his belt.  Master Jinn had left the small quarters they shared a half-hour ago, under the pretense of overseeing the landing.  Obi-Wan, however, knew better.  A chartered frigate like this one was well versed in landing at a variety of ports, and had no need of Jedi intervention.

With a humph, Obi-Wan moved to the ‘fresher to splash his face again.  His nerves—anxious about his first “official” mission and desperate to put the rather unwilling Master he was traveling with at ease—caused the Force to ripple around him.  He palmed the tap and let the hyperspace chilled water rinse over his finger tips.

 _Breathe_ , he chided himself.

The quiet, unruly part of him worried. _What if Master Jinn doesn’t accept you?  What if you fail?_ It nagged.

Obi-Wan inhaled deeply, then plunged his face into the bracing water pooled in his hands.  His little dark voice, the one he could often banish with a moment in his _fresh spring grasses offer up pollen to the gentle winds, wafting up from the sea; a storm foretold in motes and moisture_ center.  The moment he set foot on this transport, however, his nagging self-doubt had more traction than since he was beset with horrible visions in his fifth year.

This little voice should have no grip, he knew.  The Jedi Order had long since stopped shipping their “failed youth” to the Corps.  When Master Yoda and Master Mace, dressed in robes of silk and thrice-spun cotton that Obi-Wan would come to recognize as formal robes, announced to the Order the Changes—at first there had been disbelief.

At the time, Obi-Wan didn’t realize that not all of his Crèche-mates would ascend to Padawan-hood.  Later, he would learn of the Corps and the age in which unclaimed Initiates would be given over to the Corps’ care.

The Corps—under the new Order’s rules—now acted as a second arm of the Order itself.  Its members, who had continued to adhere to the code, were appointed titles equivalent to their age, experience, and rank.  They were granted seats on the Council, and were granted a say in the building and shaping of the future moving forward.

Some of the Masters—as they were so titled, since their experience and knowledge were akin to those in the core Order—took on Padawans and missions of their own.  They travelled the Galaxy, lending their expertise in diplomacy, agriculture, healing, and other disciplines to planets who required something more than a lightsaber and damage control.  Others sought out the continued solitude of their works.  With the sudden lack of influx to the Corps stations, Jedi from the main Temple began to take working holidays at the Corps—fashioning them into satellite temples.  The Jedi—for they were all Jedi—seemed more united, stronger than they had been in a millennia.

Therefore, Obi-Wan knew his fears were completely unfounded.  Were Master Jinn to turn him down following this mission, there would be a place and a Master for him in the Order.  During their assignment briefing, Master Yoda had even implied that he would train Obi-Wan himself if Master Jinn wouldn’t “to his senses, come.”

Obi-Wan felt a surge of pride at that.  Master Yoda had often helped him as a youngling—channeling the worst of his visions into the Force.  To become the Grandmaster’s learner would be a great honor.

And yet…the Force tugged at him gently.  Obi-Wan glanced at the chrono.  It was time.  With a final glance at himself in the mirror, and a nod that his wayward tabards were in place, Obi-Wan palmed the door and stepped into the transport’s corridor.

*

Most of his age-mates were either already Padawans or Promised to be so in the next year.  Even Bruck Chun, bully of Obi-Wan’s early years, had been taken a few months ago.  A silver haired Master with a strict countenance had come to the Crèche late one afternoon, as the younglings prepared to go to evening meal.  As with all newcomers, the Master slowly obtained the attention of all the Initiates as he spoke to Master Ora.

“…I may be getting too old for this,” the older Master huffed.

Master Ora smiled. “He will do well under structure and your unique style.”

The humanoid Master made a noise akin to a tut, then adjusted his cloak, which he wore using a chain across his neck.

“Very well.  Would you be so kind as to fetch him for me?  I would have dinner with him when I propose this…idea.”

“Bribing him with food wont hide your gruff exterior, Master Dooku,” Master Ora replied with a smile as she swept into the next room.

The grey Master stood quiet for a moment, absorbing the Crèche in all its colors and paint.  His cool eyes then settled on Obi-Wan, who had been silently observing— _not_ eavesdropping—on the encounter from a plush bag chair in the corner.

“ _Contemporary Orbital Mechanics in the Outer Rim Systems_ ,” The Master read the cover of Obi-Wan’s book, which laid open, forgotten, in his lap. “Quite the dreary read, youngling.”

Obi-Wan jolted to his feet and bowed, as he was taught.  “It is for a class, Master.”

“Yes, indeed.  A rather high one.  Are you not yet a Padawan, or are you Promised to be, Initiate…?” He trailed off.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Obi-Wan supplied. “I have yet to be chosen.”

“A pity,” the Master said, stroking his well-groomed beard.  The greying Master laid a large hand on Obi-Wans head and ruffled his hair roughly.  “I can see it…Worry not, little Initiate Kenobi, he will come around.”

Before Obi-Wan could ask anything regarding this _he_ , Master Ora returned, Bruck following close behind.

“Ah, Initiate Chun!” Master Dooku smiled, turning to face the young, ice-eyed Initiate. “I am Master Dooku.  Would you care to have an early dinner with me?”

That night, Bruck had returned, platinum hair shorn and a tiny tail peeking out from behind his ear.  He gathered his possessions and sneered over his shoulder at Bant and Obi-Wan, who were sitting at a nearby table, doing their arithmatics when he arrived.

“ _I_ was chosen today,” he stated in a snide tone as he passed by.

Obi-Wan bristled, but Bant’s cool palm was on his hand and he halted, letting his tension escape into the Force as they watched Bruck leave with the silvered Master from before.

*

Master Ora had come to him much later, when sleep had escaped him and he sat on a couch against the wide window, watching the traffic drift lazily by.  He pressed his forehead against the cool plexiglass pane in an attempt to ward off the— _sinking sands, shifting before the storm, rising in the east with dark clouds and thunder, yet no rain would fall_ —that intruded on his center.

“Little Obi-Wan,” Master Ora cooed, her voice mild and calm.  “Does the desert claim you again, or have you something else to keep you awake at such an hour?”

Obi-Wan turned to face his Crèche Master, who had become like a mother and friend to him.  His worries were silly, he knew.  Bant had already shushed them exasperatedly earlier at dinner.  But she was already Promised—promised to the Jedi with eyes like honey and whose voice hummed like the bees that made it.  Once she returned from her half-year sabbatical to the Library-Temple on Alderaan, Bant would become her apprentice.  He blinked, and looked into Master Ora’s eyes, lavender and patient.

“I have yet to be chosen,” Obi-Wan confessed, although Master Ora already knew this, as though it would change now that it was said aloud.

Master Ora opened her arms wordlessly, and without hesitation Obi-Wan fled into them.  He let himself be engulfed into her tunics and surrounded with— _sweet muja jelly on long-risen bread, bantha milk yogurt and mint, lemon tea soothing—_ the scent and presence in the Force he had long associated with comfort and rest.  Even into his adult years, the scent of minted blue yogurt, as Master Ora would take every morning with her tea, biscuits, and jam, would always remind him of the Crèche.  Unbidden, he began to cry.

“My little Obi-Wan,” Master Ora sighed, swirling circles into his back.  “You have no reason to cry.  You will become a Jedi, the Force tells me so.”

Obi-Wan could only sniffle in return.

“It is true!  All of us can see it.  Many Masters, Knights, and even a few Scholars have sensed the Force’s potential in you.”

“Yes…but I am almost thirteen, and I am still Master-less,” Obi-Wan moaned.  “I am not even Promised!  Everyone I have met…” He trailed off.

“…Has sung your praises to me.” Master Ora finished.

“No!” Obi-Wan pushed back from her, though her arms held firm, keeping him in her lap.  “They see the desert in me and they turn away!” Obi-Wan continued, his voice pitching into a wail.

Master Ora held his shoulders gently. “They do know of your visions, Obi-Wan, but…”

“Of course they do,” Obi-Wan interjected, hot tears burning his eyes.  “They know my fate.  They know what will happen to me!” He choked on a sob.

Soft, patient hands lifted his chin.  “My dearest Youngling,” Master Ora began, brushing a few tears away with her fingertips.  “No, little love, they see your immense potential.  Your desert, while worrisome, is nothing that we fear.”

Obi-Wan blinked.  “It’s not?”

“No.  Little Obi-Wan, they see you are already Promised,” Master Ora said, smiling a small, almost sad smile.

“I…w-what?” Obi-Wan was stunned.

Master Ora tucked him smoothly back into her arms. “You are already Promised, little Obi-Wan, and have been for some time.  It is just a matter of time before your true Master sees it.”

“Oh.”  Obi-Wan could hardly find the words, though the Force whispered _true_ in his heart. “Who?”

“Meditate with me,” Master Ora replied, resting her chin on top of his head. “Reach out with your feelings, the answer will come.”

_He sinks—as if through water_

_Into the void, the silence, the everything_

_The Force_

_Once alight on green-brown grass_

_Rough cattails against his ankles_

_The cry of a lone gull overhead_

_Calling into the tradewinds_

_A howl for all and none_

_He breathes—salt and sand_

_The scent of the sea_

_Crashing high upon the cliffs_

_He is at peace, at home_

_The moisture kissing his check_

_Speaks nothing of unforgiving heat and never ending sun_

_And so he reaches—_

_The soft mote of blue green light_

_And so he follows—_

_Down bluffs to where the grass grows patchy in the sand_

_In a fleeting breath he feels_

_Still waters, calm breeze_

_Rough spun cotton on his back_

_And the taste, tangy and fresh, of quiet mornings_

_A rush of confidence, a nudge_

_And he descends—_

_Ascends—_

_Up, out, down, around_

_Stretching, as if awoken from a most restful sleep_

_Until he feels a pull, gentle and minute_

_A quiet chime, shimmering in the silence_

_And so he follows, obediently—_

_A mote of light down the path revealed_

_And so he leaves the sandy shore behind_

_And underfoot the sand gives way to pine_

_While denser still a forest does convert_

_With lazy winding trails—the sounds of life_

_Forgotten though this grotto had become_

_A memory—a shadow of a bough_

_Arise before his eyes a heart tree tall_

_Where grasses, flowers, bees, all shelter find_

_A home, a cherished place within the vines_

_That drape a canopy and filter sky_

_Protection from the elements provide_

_A little rut in which a soul could hide_

_And lo! Behold the truth upon the Force_

_With rightness filling heart and rising soul_

_He basks within the heat and draws in warmth_

_For Master found and Man to fill the role_

_With longed limbs and chestnut flowing mane_

_In eyes that held the sky, there came a name._

“Master Jinn,” Obi-Wan breathed, surfacing from the guided meditation in awe.

“Your feelings serve you well,” Master Ora agreed, stroking her fingers through his copper hair.

Obi-Wan basked in the affectionate touch while his mind processed the new found information.  He had only seen the Jedi Master a few times in passing.  Of course, he had attended a few of the Initiate level lectures that Master Jinn gave every cycle.  The Master was an exceptional diplomat and a keen swordsman.  Obi-Wan remembered the crowd that grew outside the salles one day, a few years ago, when Master Jinn had challenged the great Master Windu.

Obi-Wan had always caught himself staring at the tall, imposing Master whenever he found himself in the same room.  There had always been _something_ —elusive and flighty—that would drag Obi-Wan’s attention whenever they were nearby.  Until now, Obi-Wan had chalked this feeling up to the Master’s imposing nature and aloof, down-the-nose stare.

Master Jinn, on the other hand, seemingly felt no such attraction.

“But why?” Obi-Wan asked after a moment, lifting his cheek from his Crèche Master’s tunic to look at her directly.

Master Ora tilted her head thoughtfully, her lekku twitching as she formed a reply.

“Do you not remember that night, oh so many years ago?”

Obi-Wan suspected he must look confused, as the Crèche Master sighed and continued gently.

“Nearly nine years ago, the Force woke you from slumber in the little hours of the morning.  Ever obedient to the call of the Force, you responded in kind and followed It’s will.”

Obi-Wan blinked, “I don’t—“

“You do.” Master Ora affirmed.  “You heeded the Force’s warning when no one else would and found Master Jinn near death in the Room of a Thousand Fountains.”

Realization dawned on him. “I always thought that was a fever dream from when I caught the Balmorra flu.” Obi-Wan said as memories of the Room and the swirling black void in the Force rose in his mind’s eye.

“No, little Obi-Wan.” Master Ora beamed, poking his nose with proud affection.  “It was no dream.  You found Master Jinn and were able to call for help.  You anchored him in the present, and you reminded us all that compassion is one of the true goals of the Jedi.”

Obi-Wan flushed. “If that is true, why hasn’t he chosen me?  Why hasn’t he spoken to me?” He asked, doubt rising up like bile in his throat.

Master Ora’s brow furrowed. “Only Master Jinn can answer that.”

They sat silent for a while after that, letting the Force surround them as the sun began to peek over the distant horizon.  Slowly, they absorbed the lingering peace of the early dawn, as the traffic above them began to increase in volume.  Obi-Wan tried to quiet his mind and just be in the moment, as he was so often taught, but his thoughts buzzed in his mind like trapped fruit flies.

“Does he hate me?” Obi-Wan asked, the question floating into the silence, voicing the self-doubt that steadily grew in his heart.

Master Ora squeezed him gently.  “Of course not!  My littlest Obi-Wan, there is no fault in you with this matter.  Master Jinn has some baggage he struggles to carry, I’m certain, but I am also certain that he doesn’t hate you.”

Obi-Wan considered this.  _Almost dying is scary_ , he reasoned.  _I nearly died too, from the flu that came after._

“Bright boy,” Master Ora praised aloud.

Obi-Wan blushed.  He had forgotten to raise his shields following their impromptu meditation session.  “Sorry, Master.”

His Crèche Master gave him a joyful smile. “Not a problem, little one.  Now,” she began, her smiling turning conspiratorial. “I was told that Master Jinn is giving a lecture after breakfast today…”

“I’ll go!” He exclaimed, leaping from her lap.  He paused for a split moment, then sunk into a deep bow. “My thanks for the lessons you have provided today, Master Ora.  I will remember them always.”

Master Ora gripped his shoulders. “The pleasure was all mine, Initiate Kenobi.  Remember, you are a Jedi, always.”

“I will!”

“Then off to the ‘fresher with you!”

*

Obi-Wan stepped into the corridor, pulling his cloak about him in an attempt to avoid the other passengers’ glances.  He tried to project that— _calm, cool, confident—_ stride that he had watched other Jedi assume.  It would come in time, he supposed, but for now, he would hide his unease beneath the dark brown folds on his shoulders.

Master Jinn was waiting where Obi-Wan had expected him to be, leaning against a bulkhead near the disembark zone, his nose stuck in a datapad.

“Hello, Master Jinn,” Obi-Wan said, trying to inject a tone of cheeriness to his voice.

“Initiate Kenobi,” the Master replied, glancing over his reading. “Master Voylan sent an update to the mission report.  Please read it.”

Obi-Wan did his best to smother the wince that came unbidden at the title.  “Of course, Master Jinn.”

Settling on a crate next to the now silent Master, Obi-Wan dug his own datapad from his pack.  As the Master had said, a mission update blinked dutifully on the corner of his screen.  Things on Bandomeer had apparently taken a turn for the worst since they had spoken in the Council chambers.  There had been an accident in the mines and demonstrations had erupted in Bandor, the capital.

Suddenly, Obi-Wan felt the artificial gravity on board ease, and Bandomeer’s take over.  Master Jinn straightened beside him as their transport made dock.  He felt, more than saw, the tall Jedi glance him over, before setting off towards the opening exit.

“Come,” he commanded as he strode off, long legs taking him away faster than Obi-Wan had anticipated.

Obi-Wan’s spine stiffened unconsciously as he stood and hurried after the towering Jedi Master, who had already down the foot ramp.  He increasingly felt unwanted, but with a quick tug on the pack on his shoulders, Obi-Wan followed.  Ahead, amid the other early disembarking passengers, he could see a cloaked figure on the landing pad waiting.  Jedi cream and brown and skin the color of fresh green apples told him that this was Master Voylan.

Obi-Wan managed to catch up to Master Jinn just as he finished pleasantries with the agricultural Master.

“Ah, and this must be your young learner,” the Mirialan said, dark eyes gazing at Obi-Wan kindly.

“Not quite my learner—“

“I’m Initiate Obi-Wan Kenobi—“

Obi-Wan and Master Jinn had spoken together and both had stopped abruptly.  Obi-Wan blinked in surprise, embarrassment flooding him as he prayed that one of the older Jedi would proceed and ignore his blunder.  To his great relief, Master Voylan burst into laughter, deep and rumbling.

“Indeed.  We shall see how _that_ develops,” he laughed. “Welcome, then, young Kenobi and Master Jinn, to Bandomeer.”


End file.
